


the dreams in which I'm dying

by HowCleverOfYou



Series: like sun and rainy weather [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy and the Mind Flayer escaping the morgue, Crematory, Fear, Gen, Mind Flayer POV, Murder, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Relationship, Torture, Violence, cremation, suits who don't seem to give a shit abt hawkins in any of the seasons continue to suck at their jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25376017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowCleverOfYou/pseuds/HowCleverOfYou
Summary: He is the perfect Host. He is charismatic and young and strong. His muscles build quickly. He is weak-minded and afraid. He always has been. Knows pain yet cannot handle it. It is not difficult to break him./takes place before in the locust wind. can be read on its own.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: like sun and rainy weather [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827970
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	the dreams in which I'm dying

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place prior to in the locust wind during the lost time. can be read stand-alone (but may be more meaningful if you read the series).
> 
> I've never written in this sort of tone/~vibe~ before and it was a really cool experience! I watched almost all of a 17min crematory tour to get a sense for how it works and feels. I learned a lot, plus weirded out my roommate, who was in med school and actually dissected cadavers!!! also sorry to braden holtby for killing someone with your name. I used it without thinking in in the locust wind and only realized when I started writing this that he was going to be MURDERED. you're still my fave, I promise.
> 
> the title is from "mad world" by tears for fears

Cold. _Cold._ Good. Solid, soft, hard, warm. Bad. Cold. Beating heart.

The room smells of formaldehyde. There are three other human bodies in the room; only one is alive. The living one stands at an examination table a few feet away playing cards by himself. He does not notice the Host awakening. The Host is strong despite his body sluggishly oozing black. The man is on the floor before he realizes he is not alone. We ensure the Host feels the splintering of the man’s throat under his bare feet. He dies slowly and we pat him down for his keys and ID card. His name is Sam Nelson. The Host will not stop screaming.

Sam Nelson is young. He is new and working the night shift. The Host eats the sandwich sitting on the table next to the playing cards despite his rolling stomach. There is a box under the table we awoke on that contains the Host’s articles. We pull on dirty jeans and a ripped tank top. Scuffed sneakers. There is a gold necklace at the bottom and the Host yearns for it. We turn and walk away.

The Host shimmies Sam Nelson into a body bag and pulls on the lab coat that hangs in the corner of the room to hide his clothes. We take a moment to shake a hand through the Host’s hair and to clean some of the blood and dirt from his face to ease suspicion. We wipe up the blood and bone fragments left on the floor and throw the rag into the bag with Sam Nelson’s body.

We wheel him down the hall into the crematory. It takes a while to find which key on Sam Nelson’s key chain works on the door. The body bag is barely up to the shoulders in the retort when the door opens and security comes in.

“Hey, Chief,” we say with a slanting smile and a half-cocked salute. It is reminiscent of who the Host used to be. “Look, can you show me how the buttons on this thing work? It’s my first shift and the one I was trained on didn’t have quite so many buttons.”

“You’ll have to ask Sam,” he says. “And I don’t think you’re supposed to burn ‘em in the bags, right?”

“The guy who taught me thought it was more respectful than scraping the remains out after. These bad boys can withstand a lot; you’d be surprised.” They cannot. They will be dust with Sam Nelson.

“You need some help lifting him?” he asks. “Who is this, anyway?” He helps push Sam Nelson the rest of the way into the retort.

“Some suits brought him in,” we say easily. “They were gonna come back for him tomorrow, I think, for some reason, but I guess they called Sam and said they changed their mind and we can scorch him.”

Security smiles a little. “I’ll grab Sam for you. Too many damn buttons on that thing. Joe Fitzsimmons, by the way. Welcome aboard.”

“Nice to meet you,” we say and punch him in the face. He goes down, nose bleeding heavily. We get on top of him and hit him until he is weak and immobile, then the Host’s hands go tight around his neck, thumbs digging in. The Host wants to let go. We only let go when Joe Fitzsimmons stops moving. 

The Host cries often. He cries when he knows he is doing something bad. He does not want to. We wipe his tears off our face and empty Fitzsimmons’ pockets of metals and tuck his gun into our waistband. He is larger and shorter but muscular and it takes a while to pivot his body into the retort. The buttons still do not make sense, so we press them at random. Even with the door closed, the room gets steadily warmer. We watch from the hall until we are assured it has been turned on correctly.

The Host’s body has several gashes from last night. We thought he had become too acquiescent to break through. We were foolish and released our hold. The Experiment freed him. If they do not meet again, he will remain passive. He is easy to break. We kept him still and unblinking as Red Hair screamed over his body. The Boy stood a few feet away, arms crossing as he talked to his friends. His face was bloody and swollen. The Host ached and ached and ached for the Boy. Hurting is a comfort to him. He crumbles easily.

It is early morning and the sky is still dark. Nobody else is in the building. Getting outside is easy. There is a man walking past, whistling, and he says, “Howdy!” cheerfully. We follow him at a distance for a while. When the woods are closer, the Host shoots him in the back with Fitzsimmons’ gun. He hits the ground and we are on top of him. Once, a long time before us, the Host almost killed the Boy. He hit relentlessly. He thinks about it often. The Host does not want to hit the man on the ground, so we do it for him. He is not dead from the gunshot wound but goes quickly when his neck is snapped. The Host wails but we do not make a sound.

We take his wallet and house keys and roll him into the woods. His name is Craig Holtby and he does not live far. His home is low-slung and dark, quiet, isolated. He lives alone. Staying is temporary, only until they find the body. The Host sleeps a lot, wounds aching, and we leave him to find shelter.

There is a cabin. We have been here before. It is empty now. We bring the Host here and make it his home.

The Host tries to leave. We knew he would. We walk him eighty-five miles to the city until his bare feet are bloody. The Host is weak and crawls through the woods. Rocks cut his hands.

In the city is a bridge. The Host feels relief; he thinks this is release. We go underneath instead. There is a man, half-asleep, huddled up against a dirty backpack. There are sharp rocks everywhere; we take one and the Host cuts his chest, enough that what remains can ooze out. The Host is in agony. He watches us slide from him and to the man. He has never watched before but now he thinks of all the people he brought to help nourish us, to help us grow. He watches and cannot look away.

We are plumper. Stronger. The Host cuts a line into his leg, deep enough that the muscle tears, and we are one again. We shuffle through the items the man left behind until we come across a camouflage jacket. Army. _Dominguez._ We leave everything behind.

The Host is injured. He knocks the knob clean off the door of a pharmacy and gathers pain medication and what he needs to stitch up his skin. He drinks water for the first time in days, gulping it down so hungrily that it spills over his chin. We loosen our grip and he goes a little slack, a little relaxed, until the pain of his open skin is too much to bear.

He does not try to leave again.

He is the perfect Host. He is charismatic and young and strong. His muscles build quickly. He is weak-minded and afraid. He always has been. Knows pain yet cannot handle it. We show him how Red Hair moves on without him. The Boy is no longer in Hawkins. The Host was supposed to attend his final year of school as the leaves change because he is still a child, and we show him how quickly he is replaced. Locker reassigned. Basketball team restructured. He withers.

It is not difficult to break him. He gives up quickly. We leave him for longer to build our tunnels deeper and farther. He will lead the crusade when it begins. He will carry us until we are strong. We move west. We follow the road maps in his head. He entertains himself by floating alone in an ocean, eyes closed against the sun. When we pull him out, he flinches as the dream crumbles around him and he is faced again with his reality.

He prays. He thinks about human emotions. He aches for the Boy and for his mother. He thinks about Red Hair. He says sorry and cries. He recites the names of those he has killed: Nelson, Fitzsimmons, Holtby, Dominguez. He thinks about their faces. The crematory was over county lines and suspicion never crossed the border. The suits did not return for the body. Nobody is looking for him. Nobody is looking for us.

We keep his body strong and nimble. He is content being detached and as long as he is strong we do not worry. We leave him more often. Create plans. Strategize. We keep him dazed and paltry. He loses track of time. He is in storage until we are ready.

We do not expect the Boy, the Experiment, and the Red Hair to find him. They take him from us. 

They do not find us.


End file.
